


You Teaser, You Pleaser

by Unchained_Daisychain



Series: Chains of Love [2]
Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Fluff, George ain't getting them back, Handcuffs, I refuse to spoil who gets cuffed and who tops so you gotta read to find out, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, Smut, Teasing, hope my seat in hell is comfy, jesus christ i'm sorry, technically there was a plot not so much anymore, the approved sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-11-04 10:01:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17896391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unchained_Daisychain/pseuds/Unchained_Daisychain
Summary: John and Paul finally find time to put their new handcuffs to use.-John shrugged, but the smirk on his lips belied his nonchalance. He glanced at the handcuffs Paul held between their bodies. “Seize the moment, Macca,” he said, low, tracing a single finger along the ridges of one open cuff. “Or any accessible poles throughout the day. They always leave that part out.”





	You Teaser, You Pleaser

**Author's Note:**

> this took me a century bc I'm a Professional Struggler™. so sorry for the wait, but even when I post trash, I still refuse to post complete trash, ya feel?
> 
> I asked who y'all wanted to see handcuffed for this sequel, and the results were a tie. being the indecisive fuck I am, I literally flipped a coin and went from there. I’d definitely suggest giving the first part of this series a read so you’re not completely lost.
> 
> speaking of, thanks a million for all the feedback and kudos on that one! I'm not at my most poetic when I do these dumb fics, but I'm glad you guys still give them a read.
> 
> happy reading and a very happy early birthday to sweet, beautiful George, without whom this fic would not be possible bc he contributed the handcuffs.

The room was smaller, more intimate than a suite shared between four blokes. Split in half by a king sized bed, with sheets of deep red spilling on top as if even they were privy to the shades of passion soon to transpire. A desk shoved off to the corner, adorned with hotel stationary that would serve them no use. No windows, no television, no distractions. A room catering to their simple needs, but sprinkled with enough detail to suggest perhaps a pinch of planning.

Paul wondered how John talked his way into such an implicative room without odd glances from faces caked in suspicion.

But his concern lasted for all of about five seconds before it leached away at the sight of the mini-bar situated on one of the chest of drawers. Paul toed off his shoes and tossed his bag to the floor on his way over to the small display. It was far less grand than the celebratory spread Brian had compiled for them; but the fact he and John could use this one anyway they pleased plenty made up for its size. He grabbed a small bottle of Scotch from the ice bucket, smiling down at the label as familiar ideas popped into his mind.

“Now, now,” came John’s warning tone, riding in over his shoulder, “you know what happened last time we started.”

Paul knew. Oh, how he knew. A couple of body shots had resulted in the steamiest shower he’d ever taken with the man he’d fancied for years, and it was all compartmentalized into a particularly special folder of his brain.

“It ended with us about to shag in this hotel room? Yeah, wouldn’t really call that a loss, love.” He smiled back at John over his shoulder. His heart skipped at the way John’s eyes traced the curl of his lips. “Unless we _are_ actually here to write songs, in which case I was _greatly_ misled.”

A hand fanned out across John’s chest. “A _shag?”_ he crowed, voice thrown the slightest pitch higher. “Why, Paul, the only things being blown and fingered in this room will be harps and guitars. Good heavens, what you must _think_ of me.”

Biting the smile on his lips, Paul turned around to face John, who kept him pinned against the chest of drawers with the weight of his body and the mischief in his eyes. “I think you’re full of shit,” he murmured before pulling him into a kiss.

John gave a soft chuckle against his mouth that quickly lost shape to the hum stealing its place. His hands came to rest on the polished wood at either side of Paul’s hips, head tipping to work his way into his mouth. Paul opened beneath him, caved to the deft flick of John’s tongue along the roof of his mouth. The rhythm of a music he could taste; composing and composing, even through the slide of his lips.

Parting only to string his kisses higher, John reached Paul’s earlobe and whispered, “I’d rather be full of something else.” A gentle pull with his teeth, scattering shivers across his skin like bites of electricity. “If you’d be so kind.”

“Bloody hell,” Paul moaned, but hoped what John heard was: yes, yes, _yes._

He snaked his hands around to John’s back. Over layers of fabric, they traced dips and muscles steadily growing familiar beneath his fingers, and eventually nestled themselves in the back pocket of John’s trousers. Distracted by the hand gripping his hair and the teeth catching against his bottom lip, Paul nearly failed to notice the cool kiss of metal on his fingertips.

He felt John smiling against his lips, barely able to maintain their kiss from the width of it. “Dangerous to rummage around in a man’s pocket,” he murmured, nuzzled Paul’s nose. “Never know what you’ll find in there.”

“Clearly,” Paul breathed as he extracted the handcuffs from John’s pocket. No longer a harbinger of failure, but a promise of pleasure. That John had been carrying them around all day, during recordings and in and out of cabs, waiting to seduce Paul into bed and put them to use, was both comical and arousing as all fuck. He could hear the hitch in his own voice when he asked, “Christ, did you have these in yer bloody back pocket all day, you maniac?”

John shrugged, but the smirk on his lips belied his nonchalance. He glanced at the handcuffs Paul held between their bodies. “Seize the moment, Macca,” he said, low, tracing a single finger along the ridges of one open cuff. “Or any accessible poles throughout the day. They always leave that part out.”

“So you thought maybe we’d lock onto a mic stand and just go at it in the studio?”

“Can’t say it didn’t cross me mind.”

Paul snorted. “Are you that impatient, Johnny?” he teased as he tucked kisses against John’s neck. “Couldn’t bear another second without having me?”

John hummed, craned his neck for his lips. An encouraging hand weaved its way into Paul’s hair.  “I just had to know what all this uproar about the Cute Beatle was.”

“Fuck you,” Paul laughed, unlatching his mouth from John’s skin and straightening up. He gave him a light shove and followed after it, ushering them towards the bed.

“See, now yer gettin’ it!”

There was a spark in John’s eyes that conveyed his willingness to follow the hand on his chest wherever it led him. Crack a whip and Lennon would chase the sound.

“I’ll show you an uproar,” Paul muttered and pushed until John sat with a bounce onto the bed.

“Ooh, yessir,” John said, a low rumble, and—well, Paul just had to ignore the twitch his prick gave at that.

_One fucking kink at a time._

He crowded onto John’s lap, earning a heavy-lidded look and a hand at his lower back for the effort. With fingers twisted around his tie, Paul roped him into another kiss. It was filthy and eager. One that took and refused to give; one that had John’s neck stretching higher for the claim of his lips.

Subtly, John shifted his hips against his arse, but Paul sensed every ounce of silent desperation in the movement. And, feeling particularly cruel, he angled away, avoided the tent in John’s trousers begging for his attention. John exhaled a stunted huff as Paul instead busied himself with removing his shirt, preferring not to foot the bill of more ruined clothes. His lips followed each button opened, painting a trail from collarbone to ribcage. With tangled breath, John encouraged his descent, leaning back on his elbows and anchoring his fingers into Paul’s thick, black hair.

“Budge up,” Paul said, when his lips could travel no lower, and grabbed the handcuffs that lay on the duvet.

Far too hurriedly, John kicked off his boots and scrambled up the bed as though Paul had shouted an order. It made him snicker, seeing John with this schoolboy obedience for once. However, his grin quickly receded, fell to something faint and hungry, under the fiery smolder in John’s eyes.

He crawled up after him.

The metal bars that formed the headboard were practically begging for a pair of handcuffs to fill their gaps. Truly remarkable forethought on John’s part. All of it, from the bed to the bevvies. And Paul would personally see to it that he got his money’s worth.

He sat astride John’s hips. Before he dared use the handcuffs, he routed his hands up the muscles and veins of John’s arms, then pinned his wrists above his head. He could feel the shifting tendons with every clench of John’s fist. Testing the hold, showing the slightest resistance.

Paul squeezed his wrists with a smirk and asked, “Still okay?”

John’s eyes were brimming with so much trust it threatened to spill over and pool onto the pillows. “Perfect, baby.”

Warmth slinking through his belly, Paul clicked the first cuff around his wrist. Resolute, a gavel to wood or a signature to paper. He fed the second cuff through one of the bars and clamped it around his other wrist, understanding all too well the chilled bite John was feeling against his skin. Once secured, John tugged at the handcuffs experimentally; they provided minimal leeway, only a metallic rattle.

“Comfy, then?” Paul asked.

John rolled his eyes. “Christ, are we gonna shag or sit ‘round and fluff the pillows?” he griped, though hardly intimidating in his newfound position. “'M dead pleased, Macca, now get on with it.”

Paul ghosted his fingernails along the exposed underside of his arms, thrilling in the compulsive jump of muscles. “You know, that tie of yours would make an awfully fine gag.”

John huffed a laugh, but Paul relished in the silence that followed it.

Another crack of the whip.

* * *

“Don’t move, now, John. I’d hate to leave a mess of the place, you know.”

“I’ll just hold my breath, then, shall I?” John groused. He kept expertly still nonetheless, and the champagne in his belly button toppled precariously with every rise and fall of his chest.

Paul tugged his jumper over his head to hide his smile. “Whatever it takes, love.” Drawing out the length of John’s patience like taffy—just because he could—he folded the jumper and placed it neatly in a vacant, leather upholstered chair.

John’s head craned to clock his every move, somehow embodying prey and predator at the same time. When he leaned against the dresser and grabbed a fag from the carton on top of it, Paul could practically smell the impatience leaking from him. Hefty and rich. He lit the smoke and observed John through the gossamer veil of white.

“C’mon, Paul, what’re ye doin’?”

“Just admiring the view,” he said, eyes scanning their way up the length of John’s body. It was too easy to get lost in the dark, and the muted light from the bedside lamp doused John in countless, half-formed shadows. Thickest where his trousers hugged his hips. “Gotta figure just exactly what I wanna do with you.”

They locked eyes as John threatened, “I swear to God, if you leave me here—”

“You’ll hop up and chase after me?” Paul quipped, mouth curling like the wisps of smoke. “Oh, wouldn’t that be a sight?”

“Cheeky bastard,” John said, lacking its usual heat.

Cigarette dangling between his lips, Paul unbuttoned his trousers and slid them from his legs. He resisted shoving a hand down his briefs, more than able to get off on the sight of John spread out like an offering on the bed. Instead, he stubbed out his fag and went to sit on the edge of the bed.

“Thirsty?” he asked John with his eyebrows raised.

To the hesitant, answering nod, Paul offered up the glass of champagne, held it to John’s lips as he drank a sip. But before he could fully swallow, Paul tipped the flute and splashed a second puddle of champagne onto his sternum. Thrown off guard, John choked, and the drink trickled across his chest, leading a wet, tortuous trail to one of his nipples.

Paul traveled that trail with his tongue, mouth hot and open as it dragged along his smooth skin.  He settled back between John’s legs, his hard-on pinned against John’s thigh. A pressure that only heightened when his hips bucked the moment Paul’s lips closed around his nipple.

“Bloody hell,” John said, quiet and raspy, as Paul’s tongue slowly flicked over the bud. Puckering, then pulling away; gusting cool breaths for that too-much sensation.

He journeyed his way over John’s sternum, where the beat of his heart met his lips like a kiss. Down, down, he kissed over each rung of his ribcage, and at last dipped his head to suck the shot of champagne from John’s belly button. Even as every last drop was gone, his lips kept at it, mouthing the soft skin above the waistline of John’s trousers. He glanced up and caught sight of John with his lip trapped between his teeth, arms bound above his head.

Absolutely breathtaking.

Something possessive slid down Paul’s throat as he unbuttoned John’s trousers; a desire to etch his initials, some conspicuous watermark, into John’s skin with his teeth and claim him— _mine, mine, mine!_

That potent urge expanded through the whole of him once he realized, suddenly and unexpectedly, John wasn’t wearing underwear. He was all at once naked and hard and, really, it shouldn’t have been _that_ much of a turn on…but it completely was.

“Christ,” he breathed. It took a minute for his brain to resynchronize with his hands and finish sliding John’s trousers from his legs.

“Yeah,” John laughed, thick and almost equally shocked. “Made it easy to have a quick wank when ye copped a feel in the loo today, then buggered off.”

Shit, it had just been for a laugh. Paul drying his hands off on the front of John’s trousers whilst they had a moment to themselves; a friendly grope. Had he known it created such a problem for John, he would’ve stuck around and…given a hand.

Fortunately, he could make up for it now.

Again, Paul grabbed the champagne from the bedside table and analyzed the real estate of John’s body—all the planes and valleys—to see from which parts he could best have another drink. The glass tilted and the champagne slid down the groove of John’s pelvis like water through a ravine.

A faint gasp bled from him. An interesting contrast, Paul imagined. The liquid soothing his heated skin, but Paul’s tongue creating a renewed rush of warmth as he licked the length of that deep groove and up the side of his thigh. As Paul added a pinch of teeth on the inner thigh, John squirmed under him, toes curled into the sheets.

He administered the same attention to the other leg, then smiled as he realized, “Everything started as soon as I got a taste of you.” The perfect concoction of salty and sweet. Mouth never wholly able to retire from the exploration. “Don’t you just love when things come full circle?”

Shuffling against the bed, John cleared his throat. “I like it when _I_ come. Not full circle, just—just come. In general,” he stammered.

“We’ll get there, baby,” Paul assured, soft. “Don’t you worry.”

He dipped his fingers into the glass, gathered some of the alcohol on the tips, and touched them to the head of John’s cock. Two beads rolled down the length of it. Three more when he wet them a second time.

John audibly swallowed.

Paul set the champagne aside before wrapping a hand around him. Eyes locked on John’s, he licked a firm stripe up the underside, the drops of alcohol filing onto his tongue. It earned him a sigh accompanied by fluttering eyes, so he did it again. Played John’s body like an instrument to see which touches elicited which responses. Flattening his tongue, he collected the precome from the tip before dropping a few wet kisses there.

“Fuck,” John whispered, cheeks dusted strawberry pink.

When Paul wrapped his lips around the head and sucked, he heard the subtle clink of metal on metal and credited it to John’s knee-jerk reaction to have a grab at his hair. Truthfully, it was strange not having John’s hands on his body. Paul rather enjoyed the way John pulled at his hair during a blowjob, stroked the apples of his cheeks.

But they’d always have that, he conceded. Handcuffing John to the bed, though? He didn’t know when they’d ever find time for this again.

“Your mouth, Macca, Jesus fucking Christ,” John gasped, just as he flitted his tongue back along the tip.

The tang of the champagne began to fade, and John’s natural taste sneaked through. Paul hollowed his cheeks and relaxed his throat, taking it in slow, teasing pulls. Hands firm on John’s hips, he stilled every abortive jerk of them. After all, pleasure was best administered in small doses rather than taken at will.

John was well on his way to ruined. Hair swept at different angles along his forehead, the edge of his teeth biting into his own bicep, sweat collecting at the hollow of his throat.

Goddamn.

Paul hummed around his cock and sucked harder.

Their eyes met and, the same as commanding a stage, Paul was faced with the inveterate need to perform. Throat slick and tight, he took John down as far as he could go. Moaning and riding his tongue along the strong vein, determined to lead him to the edge without pushing him over.

“Close—Paul, I’m close,” John moaned, voice sounding more beaten than he’d ever heard before. And it was sinful, the whine that tore from him when Paul suddenly pulled off him without a trace of warning. “No, no, no, babe, _please.”_

“Shh,” Paul soothed, dropping kisses to his thigh. “I wanna try something, okay?”

The seconds scuttered past whilst John wrangled up his words, desperate once they escaped. “Shit, yeah, anything.”

Paul moved back up the bed and grabbed the key to the handcuffs from the bedside table. No sooner had John’s hands been free, than Paul was being pulled into a deep, ravenous kiss. Slow to catch up, but more than receptive once he did, he allowed John this moment for a fix. Fingers gentle on his face, rough in his hair. It was a breath of fresh air.

“On your stomach, love,” Paul whispered against his lips.

“Bleedin’ Christ,” John mumbled, but consented in a heartbeat, flipping himself over on the mattress and lying flat on his stomach.

When he noticed the subtle grind of John’s hips, Paul scolded, “No rubbin’ off!”

With a noise caught between a groan and a whine, he nodded and stilled his movements. He buried his face farther into the pillow, squirming, like the tension was bubbling out of him from the very marrow of his bones.

After he resecured the handcuffs, Paul kissed across his shoulders and down his back. One freckle connected to another by the imaginary lines from his mouth. Lower and lower, pulling John onto his knees by the hips. It forced him to support himself with his elbows planted into the mattress, head hung loosely between his shoulders. Every inhale and exhale rearranged the muscles of his back like shifting puzzle pieces.

Paul ran his hands over John’s arse, squeezing gently, and followed it up with a few playful nibbles to his cheeks. Nerves kicked up inside of him, scattering like dust, but he focused on the gratified sounds spilling from John’s lips. After a few more tender kisses, he was putty beneath Paul’s hands.

“Shit, Paul,” he whispered, reverent, “are you…?”

Nails cutting crescents into the skin to keep John open, Paul gave a tentative lick to his hole. Air left John’s lungs like it’d been punched out of him, sharp and heavy. Paul rubbed a hand down his thigh and said, “Tell me if you want me to stop, okay?”

John’s head shook vehemently. “Please don’t fuckin’ stop.”

He tried it again, harder this time, catching against the edge as he pulled out. Eyes closed, Paul found a natural rhythm like he did with most things in life, and his confidence surfaced more and more. John’s hands grappled for what little slip of bedding they could reach in their condition as Paul’s tongue licked him open, sloppy and obscene. Again and again, the insistence building.  

The seedy nightclubs they frequented were goldmines of knowledge, but even those could only teach him so much. Beyond that, instinct grabbed the reins. Instinct and the feedback of John’s body—writhing against his face and sweating beneath his palms. It was beautiful how powerfully, how _bodily_ he felt each sensation, not a single part of him bereft of reaction.

Paul had a personal agenda to drive him absolutely mad.

The soft swipes of his tongue turned more rigid, until he was inching in and circling the rim. Each puff of his breath beat back against his cheeks; face and body hotter than a match head. Thoughts swimming back to John’s initial proposal—the want of being _filled_ —Paul thrusted his tongue in and out of him. An appetizer for bigger and better.

John pressed back into him—pleasure written in the arch of his spine, the rasp of his voice lost to the pillow. The cuffs rattled against the headboard, and a frustrated groan followed at the tail of the sound. “You plan on touchin’ me at any time tonight?”

Paul pulled out of him, bottom lip skating along John’s hole and driving out another moan from him. For his insolence, Paul nipped John’s left cheek, then the right. “With that attitude maybe I _will_ just leave ye here to rub off against the mattress,” he threatened. “Like you wanted.”

“No, no, just—’m not gonna last much longer, so….”

“Use your words, Johnny,” Paul teased, saccharine.

“Fuck you. Well, no, I mean fuck me. Will you—I want you to fuck me now.” A gasping breath, then: “Please.”

And Jesus Christ if that wasn’t the first time those words actually _did_ something to Paul. His cock twitched in interest, and he kneaded John’s arse, gave another long swipe to his hole, as he asked, “Did you bring anything for us?”

“Bag. In the bag.”

After a kiss to John’s lower back, Paul made his way to John’s suitcase by the door. Tucked away to the side, beneath a few layers of clothes, were three bottles of lube and an excessive supply of condoms. As he grabbed one of each, Paul smiled to himself. John hardly ever displayed such an extent of preparation, even in his bloody career.

On his way back to the bed, Paul found himself captivated by the scene he’d created. Like an artist admiring his own tableau, he scanned his eyes over the beautiful arcs and angles of John’s body—positioned to Paul’s liking and then cemented that way, because John actually got off on the submission.

The handcuffs shimmered around his wrists. His pale back waited like a canvas for the artistry of Paul’s lips. His knees were spread wider now, and a pool of heat settled in Paul’s belly when he recognized it as John’s effort to open himself up to those teasing licks as much as possible.

“You look fucking gorgeous, John,” he breathed as he stripped himself of his underwear.

A whine. Perhaps the tender praises did more for him than Paul thought.

Back on the bed, he uncapped the lube and poured a healthy amount onto his fingers. With one hand braced against John’s lower back, he inserted two of them. In and out, scissoring and stretching, he pushed until they grazed along the bump of his prostate.

“Mmmm, _fuck!”_ John moaned, muffled by the pillow.

Paul licked his lips and crooked his fingers, rubbing slowly. “Feel good?”

John’s head turned against the pillow, offering the perfect view of his teeth sinking into his own forearm. “Yeah, bloody perfect.”

Much like when Paul ate him out, John drove himself back into it. Thighs spread wide to feel every inch as deeply as he could. Two fingers soon became three, and John even sooner became a loose, incoherent mess beneath Paul’s hands. Next time he’d have to fuck John in the studio, where they could lay each fractured shout onto a tape he could cherish as a naughty keepsake.

Nails gently gliding across the center of John’s back and fingers twisted deep inside him, Paul questioned, “Think yer ready now?”

His only response was a nod, nearly imperceptible. Not good enough.

“John.”

“Mhm, yeah.”

“You sure?” He gave another slow, hard stroke to his prostate, and John’s fingers curled around the bars of the headboard.

_“Paul!_ Fuckin’ _yes—please!”_

“Okay, okay,” he relented around a quiet laugh.

Paul prepared himself chastely, but relished in the moment’s relief of a slick hand wrapped around himself. John wasn’t the only deprived one, after all. He himself was hard and aching and nearly ripping at the seams with the want of being inside John.

More than ready, the itch low in the soles of his feet, he positioned himself behind John. One last time, he glided a reassuring hand over one of John’s taut cheeks. Then, lip wedged between his teeth, Paul guided himself in, slowly, and immediately lost all the air in his lungs.

Unbelievably tight—tighter than anything he’d ever had or would want again, and he stilled his hips to keep from caving into it all at once. Combing past the static of his mind, he noticed the tense draw of John’s shoulders, the discomfort. Paul leaned down to drop a kiss over a knob on his spine, stroked a hand over his ribcage.

“John, love, can I move?” he asked, smearing the words against John’s skin.

“Yep,” John answered, with so much strain wrapped around one syllable.

But it only took a few thrusts before he unraveled that strain, eased the pain into pleasure like it had never existed. Then John was arching his back and gasping as if each breath was already stolen before he drew it. Paul angled every cant of his hips to John’s prostate, obeying, for once, the chants of _harder_ and _faster._

“Oh God, yes,” John moaned when Paul finally got a hand around him to stroke in time with each thrust. The pleasure twisted his features, mouth open and eyes squeezed shut; the sort of emotion songs can only dream of capturing.

There was a contagion to it—had to be. Swept under the same wave as John, Paul pressed his forehead to the space between his shoulder blades and warned, “‘M close.”

“Yeah,” John panted, voice cracking at the end.  

But Paul still harbored some lingering remnants of cruelty in him. The whip tight in his hand; the power packed low in his spine. So, the incessant tease he was, he fed into the deviance and just…stopped every single movement.

The pound of his hips, the pumping of his fist—all of it aborted in the blink of an eye. Ripped out from under them, because they were in this together now. And there they were, both stranded on the edge of something blinding, just out of reach.

Paul’s wicked smirk spread stark and wide across John’s back.

“You _mother_ fucking—”

Cutting him off quick, he snapped his hips into motion again, just like that, and the curses drowned in a sea of ecstasy as John came. His knees and elbows gave out, as though the force of it had emanated from the very tips of his toes and knocked him off kilter; but Paul followed him down and fucked him through it.

Rhythm faltering, each thrust stuttered in starts and fits. Paul buried his face in the nape of John’s neck and succumbed to the clenching and unclenching of muscles around his cock, driving him headlong into his own orgasm. The cry wrenched from his own throat sounded foreign—broken, despite him feeling more whole than he ever had before.

And it all simultaneously seemed to last forever and not nearly long enough….

* * *

“I know yer recuperating or whatever,” John mumbled lazily, “but these handcuffs are a bloody pain.”

Paul snorted and peeled his eyes open, not even recalling when they had closed. Thirty minutes could have passed as stealthily as thirty seconds, and he’d be none the wiser. Sex with John had that effect.

_Life_ with John had that effect.

Drawing a deep breath, he nuzzled John’s hair, damp with sweat at the tips. They could both use a long soak, later, when his bones and muscles resolidified. Half-heartedly, he tied off the condom and tossed it aside, then reached for the key to the handcuffs.

Much like the first time Paul unlocked him, John was on him in a heartbeat. Only, this time, he pinned him to the bed and trapped his wrists above his head with a surge of energy it surely took an army to summon. Paul didn’t struggle, though, didn’t think his satiated bones would even allow for it. He rather enjoyed tasting his own medicine, the submission that came with each spoonful of it.

John’s eyes shifted between his own, like bits of the words he wished to speak could be found in each one. All of them pieced together, he smiled down at him and said, “I love it when you’re brutal.”

An onrush of kisses descended upon his neck; the hands squeezed around his wrists, fluttering his pulse. It was a welcome antithesis to the frenzy from before. Paul flourished under it.

With a crooked smile, he asked, “Will there be revenge anytime soon?”

Tenderly John kissed him on the lips, nudged his nose. “Only when you least expect it,” and after handing over that ominous bundle of words, he climbed from the bed.

A renewed appetite stirring inside of him, Paul trailed after him with dark eyes. Did John have plans of his own stowed high up his sleeves? Paul always saw him as steered by spontaneity, but maybe he was more methodical than he let on. Or maybe he was still as competitive as ever.

“And Paul?” John added, hand propped against the door jamb of the bathroom. Wrapped in a moan or a question, he always wore Paul’s name on his lips so well. “I’m gonna fuckin’ _ruin_ you.”

_Shit, you fucking promise?_

He was still buzzing from tonight, and John was already steamrolling into next time. Next time. Again and again he’d have John, experiencing him in fresh and exciting ways. Stupidly giddy, Paul smothered a smile in the wrinkled bed sheets.

John returned from the bathroom, his abdomen now wiped clean. Undoubtedly contracting Paul’s infectious happiness, he smiled and asked, “What’s got you tickled, then?”

Words would only muddle and dilute the feeling; he didn’t need words. With a shake of his head, Paul outstretched his arm, “C’mere.”

As John fell back into bed, back into his arms, Paul noticed the redness coloring either of his wrists. He touched his fingertips to one, gently brushing over it.

“Don’t worry,” John assured him. “It doesn’t feel as rough as it looks.”

“How’re yer arms feeling?” Paul asked with a deep squeeze to his shoulders. It earned him an appreciative groan and a tightening of the arms around his waist. Being confined to one position for that long couldn’t be all that comfortable, Paul imagined.

John seemed to agree. “Now those could do for a rubbing,” he said.

Pushing the auburn fringe from his forehead, Paul smiled down at him. “Oh, I’m still supposed to be takin’ care of _you,_  am I?”

“You’ll have your pamperin’ soon enough, princess. Now c’mon,” John insisted with a shimmy of his shoulders, “get with the finger work. Real firm-like.”

With John lying half on top of him the angle was awkward, but Paul set to work regardless. Not without pointing out, “If I recall correctly, you’re the one who specifically forbade fingering of any sort.”

“Aye? When’d I say that?”

“When we got in the room, ye dolt,” he reminded him with a light cuff over the head. In a mocking tone he added, _“The only things being blown and fingered in this room will be harps and guitars.”_

John cackled, kissed him lovingly on the chest. “And look where we are now,” he defended, “me arsehole looser than a used turtleneck. Clearly I’m a weak man, Macca.”

Paul dissolved into laughter, weakening his grip for the massage. Really, it resembled more clutching than actual rubbing by now, but John didn’t seem to mind. Just carried on grinning, like Paul’s chiming laugh plenty soothed his fatigued muscles.

Sobering up, he swam a hand into John’s mussed hair as he counted off, “Weak, competitive, kinky—”

“A trade of all jacks.”

“Exactly,” Paul giggled. “Am I missing anything?”

An upward tilt of his head put John’s eyes so near and stunning, deep wells of dark amber. “Madly in love,” he said with a grin meant to kid, but only succeeded in further disrupting the beat of Paul’s heart.

Affectionately Paul traced the curve of his cheek with a finger’s edge. “Well, that makes two of us, baby,” he said, soft.

Suddenly the handcuffs seemed like mere child’s play. Exhilarating and refreshing, sure; but only an outward manifestation of the chains worn inside. The chains of love that fused them together, linked from chest to chest with a steel impervious to rust or time or weather.

And maybe that sounded like a crippling sort of bondage.

Paul simply refused to call it anything _but_ liberating.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm not that great at writing smut, but again, some of y'all wanted to see the sequel, and i'm here to serve. so I hoped you liked it!
> 
> (I promise I'll update The Pusher before I post any new works)
> 
> thanks so much for reading ❤︎
> 
> [***Shameless Self-Promotion***](https://unchaineddaisychain.tumblr.com)


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